


What Dies Inside Us - Deleted Scenes

by Jadelyn



Series: What Dies Inside Us [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Caretaking, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Love Confessions, M/M, Roach is the Best (The Witcher), he's not actually dead jaskier just thinks he is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27374125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadelyn/pseuds/Jadelyn
Summary: Some 'deleted scenes' set in/around/after the events of WDIU.  AKA bits I wanted to write but which didn't work well in the structure of the main story.  These may be spoilery and probably won't make much sense if you haven't already read WDIU.  Let me know if there are other scenes you'd be curious about seeing, no promises but if it strikes a chord with me I might write it!  Rating and tags may change as I add to this.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: What Dies Inside Us [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1999573
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55





	What Dies Inside Us - Deleted Scenes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene is set between chapters 10 and 11 of WDIU.

It wasn’t like this was the first time Julian had gone after his witcher when he’d taken too long in coming back from a hunt.

And it wasn’t the first time that going in search of Geralt had brought him the sickening jolt of finding the idiot badly injured with half his blood on the outside of his body.

It wasn’t even the first time finding him out cold, for that matter.

But nothing had prepared him for the sight that greeted him when he rode Roach into the snowy clearing that winter morning. Because Geralt wasn’t just bloody and unconscious.

He was bloody and unmoving, legs trapped under the body of an enormous - and thankfully already dead - griffin, armor torn open right across his chest, half-covered in the snow that had fallen and _not melted where it touched his skin,_ and so colorless his flesh practically vanished against the snow with his lips a terrifying shade of blue.

Julian was kneeling by Geralt’s side suddenly, with no memory of how he’d gotten there. There was an awful, high-pitched sound cutting through the air, and he wondered for a moment if he should be worried about another monster happening upon them. But no, he thought, it didn’t matter, because Julian didn’t stand a fucking chance against anything that might find them, and Geralt couldn’t protect them, because he was…was…and if Geralt _was_ , then what did it matter? Julian might as well die here too, let their bodies be together in death as they should have been in life.

His hands moved without any input from him, brushing the snow from Geralt’s face. There was no temperature difference between the snow and the witcher’s skin. None whatsoever. Julian got an arm around Geralt’s shoulders and lifted him just enough to cradle him close against Julian’s chest, pressing Geralt’s face into his shoulder and curling himself down over the still form in his arms.

The keening sound had stopped - _oh_ , he thought vaguely, _that must have been me, then_ \- and there were words tumbling from his lips nearly as fast as the tears falling from his eyes. “Geralt, I’m sorry,” he gasped, choking on a sob. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Geralt, I didn’t mean it, what I said, I didn’t mean any of it. Oh gods, Geralt, I’m sorry, I love you, I’ve always loved you and I was too afraid to tell you and now I _can’t_ tell you…” His voice broke and he sucked in a sharp breath. “And you left because you thought I hated you but I didn’t hate you, never hated you, not for an instant not even in the instant you told me you wanted me gone - I couldn’t hate you, Geralt, how could I hate you when I love you so fucking much -”

His words cut off. Time stood still.

A tiny puff of air brushed against his throat. The tip of his middle finger, resting against the vein in Geralt’s throat, registered an infinitesimal vibration, there and gone again.

Julian jerked back as though he’d been scalded and stared down at the body in his arms. He rearranged himself, pressing both fingertips against the pulse point this time, bowing his head so that Geralt’s cold lips nearly brushed his cheek, and waited.

Waited.

Waited.

 _Four times slower than a man’s,_ he remembered Geralt saying once. Maybe even slower now, in this state. He forced himself to stay still.

Waited.

There it was again - the vibration against his fingertips and the softest movement of air against his skin.

He sat up and gaped, barely able to process what his mind was trying to tell him. “You’re...alive?” There was a ringing in his ears. He blinked. Felt that terribly weak pulse against his fingers again.

It jolted him into action. “You’re alive,” he breathed, awed, and then some wearily practical part of his mind reminded him, _not for long if you don’t do something._

Between one heartbeat and the next - his heartbeats, not Geralt’s - he sprang into action, a brittle crust of calm settling over his mind and heart and hands. Julian turned to whistle for Roach, only to find her already there, nosing at Geralt’s body. Without any prompting at all, she got herself as close to Geralt’s other side as she could - even though that put her right up against the dead griffin as well - and laid down beside him, leaning into him a little. Sharing body heat, Julian realized, and almost laughed with gratitude.

“Such a good girl, Roachie,” he said. Carefully he laid Geralt back down on the ground and stood, going around to get at Roach’s saddlebags. He’d seen a few potions in there, and - yes, there they were.

Early on in their acquaintance, Julian had made a point of learning everything he could about Geralt’s various potions and decoctions. He knew their names, their effects, how to tell them apart, and what combinations Geralt tended to take them in under which circumstances. For this, White Raffard’s and Swallow together, assuming he had them both. Julian dug through the potions, praying silently to any gods who might be listening, and - there!

“Thank fuck,” he muttered, snatching the two vials and returning to his previous place at Geralt’s side. He uncorked the vial of White Raffard’s and then got his other hand beneath Geralt’s head, lifting him up just slightly to make it easier to drink.

“Silver lining to your utter idiocy in running around out here without any of your potions - and believe me,” he told the unconscious witcher, “we are going to be _having a discussion_ about that once you’re awake - at least I’m pretty sure this won’t tip you over the toxicity threshold, since I doubt you’ve taken anything else since the day you left Roach in that stable.” He carefully dripped a few drops of the oily-looking liquid between Geralt’s lips and watched, hoping unconscious reflex would take over and -

Julian breathed a sigh of relief as Geralt’s throat moved to swallow the potion. He tipped a little more into his mouth, waited to be sure he swallowed that as well. He did. “Just like that, Geralt,” he murmured, giving him another sip, “good. Perfect.” He coaxed the full dose of White Raffard’s down Geralt’s throat one sip at a time, then followed it with the fiery orange-gold of Swallow in the same manner.

By the time that was done, he could already feel a difference. He laid Geralt’s head back down and put his hand over his throat again, savoring the stronger, more regular pulse he felt. Julian gave Geralt a stupid grin, unable to help himself, feeling tears welling in his eyes at the same time. “I think, my darling, you may actually make it through this.”

Roach snorted, and Julian looked at her as he got to his feet. “All right, point taken. He might make it, _if_ I clean up the rest of this mess.” To wit: getting him out from under the griffin, stitching up the gash across his chest and any other injuries Julian might find in a closer inspection, and bringing his temperature back up to normal.

The next question, then, was one of location. It might take a bit for Geralt to heal enough to regain consciousness, so it would be best to make a proper camp where they could safely stay for a while if need be. Julian looked around the clearing with a critical eye. He could build a fire out here - maybe, if he could find enough dry wood - but the clearing was too exposed to the wind and they’d get snowed on if it stormed more. Julian considered for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “As we were coming around the hill,” he said to Roach, “remember there was that little cave? It was shallow, didn’t go far back, but it would still give us more shelter than anything out here. And it’s not too far away. We can make camp there.”

That decided, it still left him with the problem of getting Geralt out from under the fucking griffin. Luckily, he wasn't trapped under the heaviest bulk of its body - just under its shoulder and neck. Julian couldn't lift or roll over an entire enormous griffin to get it off his witcher, but he might be able to sort of shift the front quarter of it enough…

"Roach!" Julian said suddenly, remembering that he wasn't entirely alone in this. He rounded her to get to the saddlebags, in which there was a coil of rope stashed somewhere.

He almost dissolved into semi-hysterical giggles as he rigged a makeshift rope harness about Geralt's upper body, even as he carefully adjusted the pattern to keep from putting any pressure near his wound. "Who'd have thought," he asked Roach as he worked, "that my first time properly getting Geralt all done up in rope would be in the middle of nowhere while I'm trying to keep his stupid arse alive?"

She didn't dignify that with a response.

She did, however, willingly get up and come to him when he called her, and let him tie the other end of the ropes to her saddle. "That's it, wonderful, perfect. I'm going to make sure you get so, so many apples and just absolute buckets of sugar when we get back to civilization, darling," Julian babbled. "Now, I'm going to go shove very very hard on that griffin to try to ease its weight off of him, and you're going to pull to get him out from under it, all right?" He chose to interpret her huff as agreement. "Wonderful! Glad we're on the same page."

Julian positioned himself half-crouched with his back and shoulders against the creature, ready to use all the not-inconsiderable strength of his legs to push it up and back as best he could. And thank all the gods, he barely had to click his tongue at Roach before she was moving, only a second after he bore up and back against the beast's carcass. The instant Geralt's legs were clear of the damn thing Julian let it drop and ran to Roach, grabbing her reins to stop her. Dragging him across the ground while wounded had been a necessary risk, but it was nothing Julian wanted to keep doing any longer than he had to.

Undoing the ropes with cold-stiffened fingers, Julian kept pausing to check that Geralt was still breathing, kept checking that terrifyingly slow pulse. It held steady, not strong enough to give him much confidence, but at least enough he could hold the panic at bay.

And then it was time for the next hurdle: getting the heavy, unconscious witcher up onto Roach's back so she could carry him back to the cave where Julian intended to set camp. He crouched beside Geralt, one hand resting on his chest, and looked at Roach.

"I don't suppose you've been trained to kneel down so I don't have to figure out how to lift the idiot over my head to get him on your back…?"

But as soon as he said "kneel", she paced a little closer and folded herself down to lay on Geralt's other side, much as she had when sharing warmth with Geralt when they first found him. He trailed off, watching her.

"And you can get back up from that with someone on your back, then?" Julian asked, a little skeptically. Roach snorted. "All right then. I'll take your word on it."

Getting his arms under Geralt's torso, Julian braced himself and heaved -

And damn near overbalanced both of them when the dense weight Julian was accustomed to from past experiences trying to support Geralt while injured simply…wasn't there. He weighed what felt like a mere fraction of what he should. It was deeply unnerving, even as Julian sent a brief prayer of thanks to any gods who might be listening for making it a little easier for him to manhandle an unconscious witcher around. He half-lifted, half-rolled Geralt and managed to get him astride Roach, slumped forward over her neck while Julian kept a steadying hand to keep him from sliding off to either side.

"All right, then, loyal steed," Julian said. "Up?" He wasn't sure if there were specific commands, or if Roach was just smart enough to know what he was doing, but 'up' seemed as good a place to start as any.

She lurched up onto her forelegs and shoved her way to her feet a little awkwardly. Geralt slid alarmingly for a moment, but between Julian's hands and Roach taking a quick sidestep to help rebalance them they managed to keep him up there. Julian could almost have wept with relief to have another major hurdle crossed.

He took a step toward the trees, ready to head back the way they'd come to find that cave, and then caught a glint of metal out of the corner of his eye.

"Ah, fuck," he said. "Roach, stay here, don't let him fall." Julian cautiously took his hand away, waited to be sure Geralt didn't start to slide and fall, then turned and jogged back to the griffin's head. Geralt's sword hilt still stuck out, blade embedded in the creature's neck. With a sigh, Julian wrapped a hand around it, braced one foot against the creature, and hauled back, feeling the sickening vibration through the blade as it slid back through bone and flesh and came free.

"Ugh," he said and shuddered. But he wouldn't leave Geralt's swords behind anywhere, not if he could help it. Returning to Roach's side, Julian loosened one of the straps around some of the bundled gear, slid the sword under it, and tightened it back down to hold it. That done, he took Roach's reins in one hand, reached up and gripped the belt-piece of Geralt's sword harness with the other to help steady him, and with a sigh led his sad little parade back toward the cavern to make camp and see what else could be done to keep his beloved witcher in the land of the living.

* * *

Julian stared down at Geralt's bared torso in the flickering firelight, feeling sick.

Not at the gaping slash wound, no. He'd seen as bad, or nearly, enough times before that while he didn't _like_ seeing Geralt so injured, he could handle it without going sick and numb with horror. Besides, a wound was - unfortunately - a natural outcome of a hard-fought hunt.

The wasted figure before him, however, was no _natural_ consequence of anything. Someone who didn't know any better might not have realized it was that bad; Geralt's enhanced musculature helped to hide the ravages of starvation and give the impression of someone who was, if lean, still strong.

But Julian knew better. He could see the sunkenness under his ribs, the concave hollow of his stomach half-masked by chiseled abdominal muscles. He could see the skin dragged taut over sharp points jutting out at the hips and collarbones. And he could see, in his mind's eye, Geralt in his prime: a layer of softness over the hard muscles, his form solid and sturdy.

Tears welled in Julian's eyes. "What the _fuck_ , Geralt?" he whispered. "What have you done to yourself? Why would you do this?"

Because Julian knew well that even during winter, Geralt was a skilled hunter and forager. He was quite capable of keeping himself in, if not quite top shape, at least a healthy condition. Not like this, gaunt and starved.

He swallowed back a sob before it could burst free and swiped away an errant tear that managed to fall before Julian wrestled himself back under control. First things first, he reminded himself, and reached for the curved needle to begin stitching Geralt's torn flesh back together.

* * *

By the time Julian finished stitching and salving and wrapping the various injured bits of his witcher's anatomy, Geralt's lips had returned to their normal color and his pallor was no worse than its usual barely-human hue. His heartbeat was strong and regular and no slower than usual as the combination of potions and warmth and medical care began to restore him to something a little closer to living than near-dead.

"That being the case, darling," Julian said, "I really must insist on a bit of a bath before letting you into the blankets. You'll render them entirely uninhabitable in your present state."

Geralt, of course, did not answer.

Julian melted snow in the collapsible leather bucket until it was about half-full, leaving the bucket as close to the fire as he dared to keep it warm. Dipping one cloth and wringing it out, he swiped it over Geralt's face, cleaning away what seemed to be weeks of accumulated grime and flecks of blood. Julian immediately followed this with a dry cloth, not wishing to leave water to evaporate on the witcher's skin to chill him any further.

Despite his best efforts, tears began to well up again as Julian worked his way down. He ran the cloth over Geralt's throat, remembering love-bites left and the sounds that had issued forth. Broad shoulders where the bones shifted even under the light pressure of his hands, remembering the way they'd flexed as Geralt moved over and in him. His chest and belly, where Julian had licked his own spend from the witcher's skin. The jutting points of Geralt's hips made him choke back sobs, thinking of how well his hands fit over them normally and the bruises that would be left if he tried that now.

At last he knelt, cradling Geralt's head on his thighs as he carefully attempted to finger-comb through the worst of the tangles in the long silver-white hair, lank and greasy in his hands in sharp contrast to the silky softness he remembered. "Why, Geralt?" Julian murmured. "Were you cursed out of your wits and unable to care for yourself? What could possibly drive you to this?"

 _You know exactly what,_ his thoughts hissed. _You did this. He ran himself into the ground, nearly got himself killed because of what you said to him that night, when you lashed out and drove him away._

"No," Julian said aloud. "No. I was unkind, but not - that wouldn't have pushed him to this extreme. There has to be some other explanation. When he wakes up, I'll be able to ask and find out."

Because it couldn't be Julian who had caused this. It couldn't be. If it was… He shook his head.

It just couldn't be.

* * *

Julian stared into the fire, as though its light and heat could sear away the thoughts running through his mind.

A few feet away, Geralt lay motionless and silent beneath the thickest fur Jaskier had and cocooned in the blankets from both bedrolls besides. He was as clean as Julian could get him in these circumstances, wounds treated, and warm. There was a broth made of jerky and snowmelt simmering and ready for when he awoke. He'd unsaddled Roach and brushed her down, setting her up with a portion of the dry feed he carried for her. There was nothing more for Julian to do for the time being.

Nothing more than wait and try not to think. Wait and try not to hope. Wait and -

A sharp intake of breath. A stifled grunt.

Julian whipped around, hardly daring to look. "Geralt?"

There was no answer, but Julian _knew_ he’d heard something. He shifted closer and reached for Geralt, then hesitated, fingers hovering inches above the witcher’s face. “Geralt?” he asked again, unable to help the pleading note in his voice. “Are you awake?”

Gold eyes Julian had feared he’d never see again blinked open, and just like that, for the space of an instant, everything was all right with the world.


End file.
